Survival
by Miss Ribbon Red
Summary: "Witches don't shoot back!" he had said. But first impressions can change over time...right?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: the wrong foot.**

All characters are property of Valve. I own nothing, not even anything remotely related to this great game.

a/n: I uploaded a .txt and all the punctuation marks went missing. Never bothered to check that :p sorry

* * *

Led by Nick, the group turned a corner on their way through the alley. That was when they heard the crying. Everyone took aim. They turned off their flash lights. The sound of their foot falls softened and died out.

"There she is…" Ellis whispered stepping past Rochelle, determined to not let her get in his way.

"'bout time I got even." He said stalking past Coach who tried to stop him, but avoided calling out once the boy was out of reach.

The southern youth, knees bent and lean muscles tense, was hell-bent on going through with it.

His gaze was fixed upon the form silhouetted by a distant street light, too far off to catch the usual glow of the eyes. She was sitting at the opening, blocking their way out of the alley. The other end was blocked by a horde of infected wedding guests.

She was close, but the weeping sounded so very far off - and just as sorrowful, like dark water streaming from the scar of a shadow. Liquid pain.

Other than Nick, who had pressed himself against the crumbly brick wall, there was only a sheet of rain between them.

She raised her head to look up at the sky pouring down upon her, rain mingling with her soft crying: Weep. Weep. Pitter-Patter. Patter-Pitter. Weep. Patter. Weep.

He narrowed his eyes to focus. Couldn't see her, but that wasn't necessary anyway.

He looked the stinging gash on his forearm. It had been from a previous witch encounter gone wrong – hence the enthusiasm.

Then he looked back up at the witch, taking careful aim at her head.

He put his finger on the trigger. Real slow… careful…

This had to be perfect, a one shoot ka-bam.

He prepared. Prepared to pull. And then –

"Would ya hurry up!!?" Nick's strained whisper came quick and rapid.

Ellis flinched.

BANG!

…a miss. And a scream.

The bullet had announced itself in a not-so-glorious burst at her shoulder. It splattered just a little.

The group was in pre-panic shock. All breaths held.

Then, out of her shadow-shrouded form came: a gunshot. It came quick enough, with a bullet that smacked the alley wall in an angry boom. Brick matter shattered like crystallized gore, near Ellis' head.

"oohholycrap!" Ellis staggered back to make a run for it, but so did Nick, and the narrow space didn't make for an easy retreat.

Rochelle and Coach were already further down. Apparently they made a run for it as soon as Nick's impatience startled Ellis enough to miss her, almost completely.

"'the hell was that?" Coach called inching forward, SMG in hand.

After a hasty struggle with Nick, Ellis squeezed past him and they both ran up to and past, the others, stopping a few feet deeper into the alley.

Rochelle looked for any signs of pursuit. "did you get her?"

The two said nothing. Nick was now glaring at Ellis while muttering in disgust.

"Well, answer the woman, you get her or not!?

"I…"Ellis said catching his breath. He wiped his dry lips with the back of his hand.

"sh-she shot at us."

"what!?" Rochelle looked concerned, more so for Ellis' mental health. "…she shot at you?"

"Kid, they can't shoot!" Coach said.

"Sweetie – no, look at me. Look here!"

Ellis looked at her though his ears were still ringing. It had been a close call.

"Are you sure, she shot at you?" Rochelle said slowly – each word like a sentence.

"Sure as this freakn' apocalypse itself!" Nick added, turning his glare to the opening where the witch had been.

"But" Ellis managed. "Witches don't shoot back." All of a sudden even he doubted what he himself had narrowly escaped.

Everyone was looking at him now. "What? They don't!"

"Then what was…?" Coach pondered out loud.

In a spell of silence a soft moan made itself heard despite the gush of rain.

"…oh shit!" Rochelle, in sudden understanding, sped across the alley to where the 'witch' had been.

There was no one there. She mumbled something involving men, shit and brains. Then stepped onto the street.

She looked both ways and then heard heavy breathing. Then, with mixed emotions, found her there:

On the pavement, among the splattering raindrops and puddles of grey sky, she sat huddled. She looked human. Healthy human; cradling herself against the wall - thighs pressed to chest, arms around her legs, bent knee-up. One hand held her shoulder, the other: a colt anaconda.

Her dark shoulder-length hair fell over the side of her face and clung to the back of her neck, soaked. Her eyes studied Rochelle's and a whimper escaped her rain-glossed lips.

Ellis caught up to them. His confusion turned into guilt.

The others joined them soon. The girl looked uneasy.

Coach was the last to arrive, but the first to say it out loud:

"a survivor…"

"What's your name, honey?" Rochelle asked, crouching down beside her.

"…Zoey"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two: Fury**

All characters are property of Valve. I own nothing, not even anything remotely related to this great game.

Reviews appreciated ^_^

* * *

She remembered opening her eyes to a metallic clanging and some guttural sounds, followed by cussing and gunshots.

It sounded familiar, like when they had been in a safe room and-

'_They_': this sent her heart slipping downwards into the ever darkening pit of her being.

'Francis…' she had heard her self say out loud before closing her eyes against fatigue, the image of Louis and Bill throbbing in the dark of her inner eyelids like the pain in her shoulder.

So…it wasn't a dream.

She realized that, before dozing off despite the sounds of a possible horde, clawing at the reinforced metal door. Heck, she didn't even care if they got her…no, not anymore.

The next time she awoke, it was silent.

Zoey hated silence the same way Francis hated, well, a lot of things. But she despised it, because it had been her only answer that fateful night, when the horde drove her into some dark end of the street. No one else in sight. For all the miles she limped, she had found nothing but the infected.

That silence…if it were real and had a physical shape it would be as ugly as a tank and as eerie as a witch. But far scarier than both combined.

She remembered stopping there (giving up? Losing hope?) near an alley, calling out for what seemed to be the thousandth time, for Francis…for Bill…for Lois.

No answer, just silence and the pain from injuries past, like every wound her body had ever incurred up to that point, had decided to pounce, like a hunter.

What happened after that was set in a blur of tears. She had broken for the first time: cried, sobbed.

The gunshot, her shoulder, it had all been a haze washed by rain and water too saline.

Now, her drowsy vision cleared and set revealing the ceiling of the room. Light oozed in like a pale yellow tongue, silhouetting the metal bars of the door upon the off-white paint above.

She groaned and tried to sit up. Her shoulder protested, as all the nerve endings there came alive in a furious riot. She winced.

But there was something else holding her down. Just before she could panic, she looked down to notice she was zipped into a black sleeping bag, rendered grey with a carpeting of dust that reveled swooshed and hurried hand prints – possibly belonging to the person who zipped her in.

She sighed and rested her head back. Perfect.

All of last night came seeping back, into memory in jarring fragments - images like reflections on a broken mirror:

The echo of a gunshot, the thrust of impact, and her own scream, that sounded so wonderfully annoying.

She frowned. Her shoulder still hurt…to say the least.

Cringing and cranky she tried to wriggle her hand over to the wound. That was when she realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

Her hand moved just fine. It was her right hand so that was good. But there was something deeply disturbing and it set her pulse ablaze:

As her hand made its way to the aching left shoulder, all she felt on its way up, was her own skin – the smooth and tight skin over her abdomen, her firm and slick abs, the sweat that collected in the area tucked beneath the swell of her –

Her breath caught. Nothing escaped her lips during the onset of her horror but in her head she was screaming.

She turned her head to the right and made out what was the source of a steady breathing: a young man, asleep, sitting with his back against the graffiti bombed wall. His head was bent down and further hidden by his cap.

He was just a few feet from her, but between them, laid out on the floor, were her clothes. Underwear and all.

At once her rage bloomed on her cheeks in a seriously understated hue of pink.

_How. Dare. He…_she thought, her hands forming fists. Nails dug into her palms.

Slowly with controlled fury, she unzipped herself. Her body was covered by some old white sheet. She sat up slowly, ignoring the pain, holding the sheet against her chest.

Now it all made sense: that gunshot: it had been _his_ doing! What could have happened after that? Did he…

She looked at his hand, limply resting it's wrist on his bent knee. Where had it been? What had it done?

_had he …?_

Of course he had! It was stupid to assume otherwise. Even someone like Louis couldn't be so blinded by white optimism to not guess what this…this…pervert might have done to her!

She held back an angry yell, smothering it with an alien need for vengeance. She had been injured; else, she could never had let something like this happen!

His hands…the sight of them made her tighten her grip on the sheet she held against herself. Fuming, she pressed her thighs against each other in a vain attempt to convince herself that she was still intact. It was foolish to believe it.

She had plans for what was now, most likely, stolen from her. Heck, even though her college friends had laughed at her virginity, she still valued it. She wanted to wait. For fear of being ravished and then forsaken, she wanted to wait. For some stupid well-hidden Cinderella dream to come true: she wanted to wait!

Looking around in the faint dawn light she saw her colt anaconda lying forgotten on an old crate. She sighed with relief that it had been within her reach.

Sheet in one hand, she reached for it.

"If I had my goddamn clothes on…"she hissed into her silence.

She knew she had been hunted down for this- this violation!

"…I would tare you apart where it matters most!"

she held her arm firm and straight, pointing the .44 magnum at him. Heaving with rage.

She prepared to pull the trigger.

"Survivor or not, you're gonna pay…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Cold**

Thanks for the reviews, they keep me writing more! ^__^

* * *

When Ellis opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what they showed him. The blur of sleep condensed into focus.

Not three feet from him, sat the rescued survivor - the one who he had accidentally wounded, for whom he stayed up all night with guilt - pointing her gun at him. Rage coloring her cheeks and sharpening her glare.

She sat up, breathing heavily. Her body was perfectly bare except for a flimsy white sheet that she held up against herself.

It took him a neat five seconds to realize that this was no dream. No matter how much it matched one. Now, not even for a minute, did it seem like this female was going to ask him to get down on his knees, and fetch some strong rope… or handcuffs. Nope. This was no fantasy.

That was when his thoughts came screaming back upstairs, into his head. He realized that: she was going to shoot him.

"Woooah!! dontshootdontshootdontshoot!!!" he held his hands forward as if to block the bullet while scampering backwards, forgetting that his back was already against the wall. For a minute, it seemed like he would crash through it –cement and all.

But the bullet never came, and when he stopped, he realized that there hadn't been a bang.

He opened his eyes, which he had closed in anticipation. Her gaze was angry and fixed at him, but she hadn't pulled the trigger.

Once more on the wrong side of that gun, Ellis was now breathing much harder than her.

She said something, but he hadn't quite heard it, over his own panic.

Pant... pant... heave…pant …pant. "…huh?" he blurted and swallowed hard.

There was no doubt about it, Ellis thought. The woman was a homicidal maniac. Wacko, for short.

"I said," she hissed, "say you prayers."

"oh- okay, look!. We-I- I don't wanna say my- no, that's not what I meant. Jus-Just relax!"

"Fine, then I guess we don't have to bother with last words and such…you fuckin' pig!"

"Hey hey, keep yer shirt on!"

"BASTARD!"

"nonono n-not- not what I meant. Totally inappropriate. Jesus, why me?!"

"I would rather be gutted by a witch, than -"

"Wait: witch -that's it!! Witch! Haha see: I- I kinda thought you were a bitch – er I mean witch! Witch!"

The girl was about ready to pull. Now. When suddenly-

"Ellis. Open the door. It's me, Rochelle" the older woman's voice made his pulse ache and melt with relief.

Zoey turned her attention to the woman at the door. She was confused. Now was his chance.

Ellis darted towards the door.

"Hey!" Zoey snapped. He stopped in his tracks, arms up in submission. He wondered if he should have snatched the gun away instead. Hmmm…

"Zoey, that you? "Rochelle asked from behind the door. She sounded cheerful now.

"…whuh-" Zoey whimpered, followed by a sudden squeal of agony. Her adrenalin had finally weakened, enough to make her submit to the pain in her shoulder.

Ellis quickly opened the door, and made a run for it, no gun in hand, either.

"Ellis! Get your but back in here, this minute!" Rochelle called after him, having stepped in. She rushed to Zoey's side. Ellis eventually obeyed, and hesitantly crept back in, but stood at the door, even after securing it.

"Aw, there there… Poor thing" Rochelle cooed, sitting beside Zoey, trying to examine her bandaged shoulder.

"Keep away from her Ro, I think she may be infected! Or worse!"

"What? Ells what are you talking about? The girl's been through hell. Some of it: thanks to you."

Zoey groaned curling into herself, as she fell onto her side.

"Don't you worry now, sweetie. You're safe with us. I brought a first aid kit. Come, lemme see that."

Ellis, sat down slowly in a corner of the room.

"Ya know, she tried to shoot me."

"What?" Rochelle un-bandaged Zoey's arm. Ellis watched as she revealed the ruby-smudged wound. He noticed that her arms were toned and firm. Strong, even. Maybe it was a good move to not attempt snatching the gun, if nothing else, she may have torn his eyes clean out of their sockets. After all, she was crazy!

"oooh that's still gonna hurt. You know what Ellis, if you hadn't missed last night, you would have killed an innocent girl."

"…and saved my own goddamned ass…."he mumbled to himself.

"I have no idea what your problem is." Rochelle said. Words: sharper than ever.

"tch. You can say that again…"

Rochelle finished replacing the bandage. "You'll get better soon, Zoey."

Zoey…so that's what her name was. He hadn't quite heard it last night. His ears had been ringing thanks to the bullet she had almost put into his skull.

And after that, he had to wait out in zombie-territory with Coach and Nick while Rochelle was getting her out of her soaked clothes. He had tried to talk to_ Zoey_ after that, but she had slept all night while he stayed up with his nervous guilt, wondering: "oh my god, what if she dies? Right here in front of me…because of me?"

"…Miss, wha-what happened to me last night?" the soft tone of her voice confused him.

Was she like, a split-personality or something?

"Well, my clumsy friend here, shot at you. By mistake, of course."

"Friend?...miss-"

"Call me Ro."

"er Ro, did you find any of my…" she seemed to be choked up about noticed that.

"-Friends? I sent Nick and Coach out looking for them not two hours ago. They should be back with news any minute. I knew the second I saw you out there, that there could be more. Pity, the rain did nothing to help."

Zoey said nothing, but bit her lip. Ellis realized that she probably _was_ sane, after all. But still, she was no friend of his. In fact, he didn't trust this newcomer. Not one bit.

"Oh, don't go fretting over it. I'm sure we'll find them. Here-"Rochelle consoled, reaching for Zoey's clothes.

"I figured you'd catch a cold so I got you out of them and put 'em here to dry." She said, checking how wet or dry the garments were.

Zoey looked towards the heap of clothing. Then at Rochelle. She looked like she had just figured something out.

"…you mean, _you_ took them off…?" She asked Rochelle. There was a strong hint of relief in words. She sounded like some big fear had just been debunked.

"Yeah. They were drenched! You're not cold any more are you?" Rochelle asked her.

She shook her head slowly. Then, she turned to look at Ellis.

Irritated that he had been caught looking at her too, he frowned and looked away. But she kept her gaze. Her anger was gone. Ellis decidedly ignored her.

"no…" She finally answered Rochelle's question. "I'm not cold anymore."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 : Worse than a witch.**

a/n: sorry it took so long, but here's chapter 4! Thanks for all the reviews ^^

* * *

So, it was Rochelle who had taken her clothes. Not the boy. She made a mental note to apologize to him, as she put them back on. What would she tell him anyway: "sorry I kinda thought you were screwing me while I was out, so I decided to kill you. Nothing personal, though."? Nah, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. It wasn't that important, and if he expected an immediate apology, well he would need to get his priorities in order. An apocalypse is not the time for social niceties.

The others were waiting outside the safe room. She'd only heard a few gunshots since they'd been there. Hmm, maybe the infected were off some place else- coffee break? She pictured two infected guys sitting on the curb with lunch boxes on their laps, talking: "Hey what did the missus prepare for you today, Joe?" - "Ah the usual- noggin noodle stew, what about you Ed?"- "her specialty, lower cortex crumble." The thought made her snigger, grimace and then snigger some more while she pulled on her dusky blue underwear.

Looking out through the bars at the top of the door, she could see the back of Rochelle's head and hear that boy, whatever was his name was – Elliot? Edmund? Edward….maybe Elroy….

She decided against pissing him off further by calling him by the wrong name. Outside she could hear him arguing with the others, talking about women, guns and P.M.S.

She frowned. All of a sudden her guilt seemed to evaporate. But she wasn't angry; she had no time for this. Her friends were out there somewhere and every passing second bit a chunk of hope away.

She winced while hooking her bra on. The angle of her arm shot pain into her shoulder.

Francis. She wondered if she'd see him again. Or Bill or Louis...but hadn't it always been Francis she 'fought' with? It had always been Francis who teased her, had how long had it been since she had been teased by someone? A day. Then why the heck did it feel like a whole lifetime since she last saw the man?

She pulled on her white tank top and picked up her jacket. It was torn and tattered and rank. She flung it away with deliberate ferocity and the jerked movement made her shoulder scream, but that was what she wanted. She bit her lip tasting the pain- pain she knew she deserved because Francis was lost, and so were Bill and Louis: lost in pain or worse...

Her breath caught as she finished pulling on her jeans. What if they were beyond pain what if they were...?

"No!" she hissed into her silence. She put on her belt, grabbed her gun and pushed open the door. God, how she hated silence.

Stepping out, she narrowed her doe eyes to the light. It was bright out, in some sick way.

"Better now?" Rochelle asked. She saw her clearly for the first time - the woman had a clear face with a certain comforting depth in her dark eyes. They were perfectly compatible with the warm confidence of her bright smile, even though she looked tired and all too recently experienced. She looked like the only girl in any horror movie who could beat the odds and survive...at least for a sequel.

"Thank you mis- I mean, Ro." she tried to match her smile, but it was like holding a candle up to the sun. Zoey didn't feel like smiling. Not one bit.

"If y'all er done talking, can we get a move on. Now?" this came from the boy, he was facing away from her, talking to some forehead-in-a-suit.

"Sure. I'm sorry." Zoey said, half wondering why she apologized.

"Yea wel-" the boy turned back to look at her, their pitiful new recruit, and lost his words. He was looking right at her now and she braced for all the complaining, remarks, and insults the man she had nearly shot(twice) would want to pour onto her.

He said nothing.

Zoey hadn't had a chance to know what he looked like, either. Now, in the light she noticed that he was young- around her age. She found that oddly reassuring. His eyes were perhaps younger than himself, as if this whole apocalypse had been deliberately easy on him. He was lean and pale, with a shock of brown hair forced down under his cap, sweaty strands still dipping their delicate, feather soft brown ends down to dangle hypnotically befor- .....hang on. What?! Had she hurt her head or something? This was hardly the time to let her mind 'go'.

She looked away. Heat exploding on her cheeks.

"er Ellis. You 'kay?" Nick, the aforementioned forehead-in-a-suit asked. "You look...constipated."

"uh- Wha.. no. No! I'm fine. I wasn't . No. must be the sausage. I mean as in the hotdog I- I ate."

She looked at him again. He looked shaken. No sleep perhaps?

"heheh. I think someone means a different kinda sausage"

"Shutup Nick!" The southern boy with the real good hair (stop thinking about it!!) stormed off.

"Was it something I said?" Nick Shrugged.

Coach, shook his head at his perceived hopelessness and followed the apparently sulking Southern boy. She was not going to think about the latter's hair. His soft delicate...Damnit!

"Tch. Boys. C'mon lets go." Ro said and they followed them up a short flight of stairs onto the pavement and then along the road. Everyone ignored the almost aimless nature of their march to god-knows-where. But Zoey had a different agenda. Even if coach and Nick were unsuccessful, so help her, she would find her friends and take them to safety even if she had to drag their corpses around for miles. She would not leave them behind.

Upfront Nick and...Whatever-his-name-was, were bickering. Ro clucked her tongue. "Ellis, come on here if he's giving you trouble."

So, his name was Ellis. He stopped and Zoey was sure he was going to argue (like Francis and his endearingly misplaced ego) but he didn't. He scurried right back to Ro's side like a boy called home by mom.

"Yeah, that's right run alon-" Nick began. Again.

"Okay, that's it!" Ro, marched up to Nick, and once more there was bickering.

Well, this was better than silence. And just then a new kind of silence erupted into being between her and Ellis: An awkwardsilence. However, it was soon broken-no-shattered, by Ellis.

"tch. You gonna try `n soot me again?"

"huh? oh that. Look I'm-"

"what? Psycho? Ya know, before _you happened_, we were fine." he stopped walking now.

"Well then maybe if you didn't have such shitty aim, you wouldn't_ have_ this problem."Now she stopped, to face him.

"Look, I thought you were a witch-"

"If I was you'd have been dead."

"Well then I guess you're worse than a witch!!"

"Ellis!!" Rochelle Cut in and walked over. The others had stopped to stare at them. Zoey found it all absolutely nauseating. She wanted Francis…and Bill and Louis, not this bunch of misfits.

Ellis walked off somewhere, perhaps back to Nick, or Coach

"Don't worry 'bout him girl, he's had it real rough lately." Rochelle said putting a hand on Zoey's shoulder, yielding guilt.

"It's my fault" she continued. "I've been a bitch with him for having injured you like that, and for him, well, he's always been the group's youngest, most cared for…you know? The kid. And now…I think this sudden change hurt him somewhere. He's just possessive about his friends. But, don't worry he'll come around. We need to stick together."

The kid. Ha. She had been 'the kid' of a group once. A wonderful group. Once, yes she had. And now she was sure Rochelle wasn't the only one who felt like a bitch. Maybe she should have apologized…

"Speakn' of stickn' together" Coach said, worried. "Where's Ellis?"


End file.
